


i want you to stay up with me

by orphan_account



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Barry Allen Isn't The Flash, Barry and Oliver were both on the Queen's Gambit, Barry ended up on Lian Yu, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:33:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22081114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The sun is overrated.Barry, for one, thinks the moon deserves more recognition.
Relationships: Barry Allen/Oliver Queen
Comments: 6
Kudos: 72





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> another fic i found,  
> enjoy   
> ty

The sun is overrated. 

Barry, for one, thinks the moon deserves more recognition. 

Space was one of the only things that got him through his time on the island, because it was the same. It was something to hang onto; to believe in. He didn’t have much of that in the end. Grasping at straws, night is to him how God is to others. We have an entire universe at our fingertips when the light turns to dark and we don’t even take the time to admire it.

People typically sleep, understandably, but ignorance is what allows them to; shielding them of what lies beyond our minds. Void in itself, we are blind to. It would take centuries upon centuries to even come close to comprehending how existence functions. 

It’s at a distance of what the man can fathom, but that doesn’t stop him from being fascinated. The reason for him being awake at 3 AM was far from what he’d like to admit, but we don’t all have the most peerless pasts and you have to accept that. Bathe in it as much as you can, embrace the bad things about yourself or your life so you can recognize the good things when they come. 

What would a world be like if we were unable to dream? To have nightmares? If the bitter thoughts on the tip of our tongues dispersed into pink bubblegum? Truthfully, it’d be mournful. As much as we wish a life without sorrow, we wouldn’t know how to go without it. We’d be fish on land, flopping around for a drop of misfortune. 

Nightmares are his greatest enemy, yet most trusted friend. They wake him to remind him, as a whisper of offhand thought, ‘Appreciate the stars, Barry, because they’ll always be there for you; in ghost of a reflection or not.’ Even if he shuts everyone out, he greets the balls of gas with enthusiasm and open arms. 

What he isn’t keen about is muffled screams into his pillow, fists clenching the sheets even in rest, body shaking despite not giving it permission to. Memories of water flooding his senses, slipping down his throat until he’s choking and coughing into unconsciousness. That’s something he doesn’t want to relive every time he closes his eyes. It builds character, sure, never lets him forget who he really is now. Falling in the false ‘everything is okay’ aura is easy and his mind makes sure he doesn’t get too comfortable. 

It’s a full moon tonight, bright as a child’s eyes, the streets almost don’t need the lamps lined among them. The leaves are an array of colors, some remaining on the trees and the rest decorating the ground. It’s undeniably fall; Barry’s favorite season.

It’s not his preferenced time of the year because the pumpkin spice latte’s are apparently quite a secret obsession for him, or that he gets to be with his family for the upcoming holidays, although that undoubtedly strikes it farther towards the top. But because it’s not hot nor freezing, just chilly enough to get your cheeks dusting rosy when the sun isn’t out. To crawl out of his window and sit on the roof after a particularly rattling attempt at sleep is more enjoyable when he isn’t getting frostbite or wiping sweat from his brow. 

He does just that now, only a slight shiver raking through his half clothed body when he settles on the charcoal shingles; you wouldn’t be able to tell if you weren’t searching for it. Survive four plus years of dangerous weathers and it’ll take more than a breeze to jerk you. Oddly, it relaxes him, makes him gulp down the terror he just endured. 

These moments are worth cherishing. A lot are, he found that out when he returned home. It was unpredictable what would cause him to be brought to tears then, watching a movie with Iris or sharing a beer with Joe; it was nearly too much. For months he regretted not taking advantage of the little things in life, because those are the ones he missed the most. Regret doesn’t do anything for the soul but make it deepen into its battered state. 

Leaning back on his hands to tip his head up and steal as many memories of the world as he can is routine. He wonders if someone were to find him out there, what would they do? Silently send Joe a text about his twenty-four year old son sitting shirtless on his roof or continue on with their life? Call out to him to ask what the fuck he’s doing? 

Honestly, he hasn’t got a clue of what he’s really playing at. Sifting through the cards of what he thinks he’s  _ supposed _ to be doing, what everyone expects him to, is what he dubs as his reality. Entertaining the idea of everything he used to be seems to be the right way to go, if not for him, for his loved ones. 

The cigarette pack lays untouched and beat next to his thigh, waiting for him to open it. Not yet. Before the crashing of the Queen’s Gambit, he’d only smoked once. Now, depending on how his week is going, swiping through two cartons is a piece of cake. His therapist says people with PTSD are more likely to take up the habit. Makes sense. The Earth around him is quiet, save for a few cars in the distance. A year and a half he’s been back and he still isn’t accustomed to not consistently hearing gunshots or landmines exploding. 

His phone starts buzzing on his bedside table, the sound of the glass vibrating on wood drifts to him through the cracked window. Despite his best efforts of avoiding human contact, he stands to reach inside, if only to check who’s calling at this hour. The name flashing isn’t unusual, necessarily, but that doesn’t stop the confused bring in of Barry’s eyebrows. He debates letting it go to voicemail, but a tiny part of him is a little too willing to answer. 

“Hey.” His voice is tired, gentle as the blankets he should be wrapped in. Beds were a luxury, but more often than not they were so soft it was nearly uncomfortable. Your body gets common with sleeping sitting up in a tree, ready to jolt awake at any given sound; or unconscious bleeding out on the forest floor. 

Oliver doesn’t respond for a few seconds. Barry isn’t surprised, just moves to take that cigarette out now. His blue lighter is in the cardboard too, resting against the limited sticks; he needs to pick some more up. His mother would scowl if she saw him now, movements fluent as he brings the cigarette to his lips, holding it there to flick the sparkwheel. The flame ignites from the lighter and he curls his hand around it to prevent the wind from blowing it out. 

Any other person would assume he hung up, or fell asleep, or just didn’t mean to call at all. Barry knows better. He waits. 

“Hey.” Oliver finally slips out. He sounds just as exhausted, if not more. There’s an airy moment shared between them then, Barry fills it with his intake of the tobacco. He holds it in his lungs before slowly releasing it, watching the grey smoke fade away. Nora wouldn’t be able to contain her disappointment if she were still alive, and he knew that. He takes another drag, full and deep.

They sit like that for a while, Barry smoking and Oliver listening. It was calming in a way, stressful in another. They’ve darted around each other, more so Barry not willing to come to grips. Oliver tried so hard when he got rescued, but the younger was hesitant. Guarded in his own right. 

They both swept to shore of Lian Yu and found the other, but got separated a mere year later. To this day, he’s unsure of where Oliver went or what he did, just heard he ended up back on the island after. Barry’s never asked and he isn’t sure if he ever will. 

Oliver Queen was pronounced dead. Had a gravestone and everything, Barry would know because he wept over it for weeks. Those 6 months in between his arrival home and Oliver’s might have been the hardest, something he’d only admit to himself. It cemented his worry of his past lover truly being gone.

Then Oliver waltzed back into Starling and a wound that never fully got closed, split right back open. 

“Sorry for calling this late. I had a dream about you, and I needed to-.” Oliver stops himself, audibly taking a breath in; preparing himself, maybe. “I needed to know you were alright.” 

Smoke lingers out of his mouth as he speaks, “It’s okay.” 

He didn’t know what else to say. He’s unsure if there  _ is _ anything he could say that wouldn’t break the mood they’ve set. They don’t talk casual anymore, short sentences and silence is their forte. 

In highschool they were wild spirits, getting into trouble the moment they met in sophomore year. Whether it be disturbing the peace in public, laughing together like children in the back of class or chasing one another through the Queen’s mansion with cake smeared across their cheeks and smashed in their hands. They could talk for hours and never get the least bit uninterested. 

Barry considers hanging up now. 

He could hear the man on the line clear his throat, like he was recollecting his thoughts. Alright, it could wait a second. He stared up at the blackness. The sun would start rising in a couple hours, destroying the beauty that is disguised as night. 

“Do you wanna come over tomorrow?” It was already tomorrow, practically, but Barry doesn’t voice that. He shifts, the fabric of his shorts getting caught on the roughness of the roof. Before the wreck of the yacht, they met up just about everyday. Now even talking on the phone is a tense game of catch-me-if-you-can, or ‘Who are you? Do I know you?’ 

“Sure.” The answer he gives isn’t one he’d like to. Denying Oliver would give him a small sense of guilt for the rest of the week and he doesn’t want that weighing on his already heavy shoulders. 

The young man speculates how their relationship would be if he hadn’t gotten on the Queen’s Gambit. How  _ he _ would be. 

A lot different, that’s for sure. 

_ “Yeah, Joe, college is awesome.” There’s mischief in his tone, and he’s trying so hard not to laugh; eyes fixed on Oliver, who’s lounging in the armchair across the room. “The non-existent room service sucks though.”  _

_ Oliver lets out a big guffaw at that and Barry muffles his own in his pillow before his detective father catches on that he really isn’t in his dorm studying chem. That’s the last thing he needs, actually.  _

_ ‘Get off the phone already!’ Oliver mouths, getting up and slinking towards him, smile still in place. He stops with his knees hitting the bed and does a little jig to music that wasn’t playing. Barry can’t help but let out a giggle, immediately covering it up with a cough.  _

_ “Yeah, sorry, think I might be coming down with something.” He fake clears his throat, loudly enough to indicate something. Joe instructs to take some medicine and get rest. “Will do, will do. Yes, I promise, I’ll call you in a few days. Okay, yeah. Yes, I’ll take it easy, promise, really. Alright, bye, love you.” The boy playfully snatches the phone after he’s hung up, tossing it off to the side. _

_ Barry just grins, hand absentmindedly trailing down his bare chest, thumb resting just under the waistband of his boxer briefs. Oliver gives a soft smirk, eyes trailing down his body. He sits up then, one leg bent to rest his chin on his knee. He reaches out and pulls on the older’s arm to join him on the white duvet.  _

_ “You’re in a whole lot of shit, Queen.”  _

_ Oliver lets out a puff of air, dutifully asking, “How  _ is  _ detective West?”  _

_ Barry plucks a jolly rancher out of the small bowl on the nightstand, popping it in his mouth and sucking before replying. “Little too trusting, but not clueless. He’s good at his job, so knowing my luck he’s found out my coordinates and is on a lifeboat right this second.” He stops swirling the candy around his tongue when a loud crack of thunder roars from outside the yacht. “Do you hear that? 1… 2… 3… It’s getting closer.”  _

_ Oliver leans back on his elbows, raising his eyebrows. “That’s not very scientific for a guy majoring in the subject.”  _

_ Barry scoffs, “And what would you know about science, Mr. Ivy League dropout.” He nudges his foot against the other’s jean clad thigh.  _

_ “I happen to know a lot about it, thanks to my boyfriend who never shuts up.” Barry chuckles, light and happy, not even the smallest bit mad. He knows good and well that Oliver would listen to him ramble until he got blue in the face, then some.  _

_ The brunet moves onto his knees, and swings one leg over Oliver’s waist, straddling him. He dips down, and their faces are close, tips of their noses barely grazing. Oliver shakes his head before finally bringing Barry in to kiss him. It’s soft, unlike the hungry ones teenage boys like to share more often than not.  _

_ Barry breaks away, not actually wanting to. He sighs, resting his head on Oliver’s collarbone, turning in to speak against his neck. “Iris might actually kill us.”  _

_ “You taste like green apple.” Is Oliver’s reply, until he senses the actual worry coming off of Barry. He indicates for him to lift his head, delicately cradling his cheek, “Listen, your family isn’t going to know you even left the state; plus, they love me.” He follows that by switching their positions and rolling them over, pinning Barry’s wrists lightly to the bed. Their joyous laughter is cut off by another roar of thunder.  _

_ Barry looks up, noticing the flicker of the lights. He’s wary as he says, “That was pretty close.”  _

_ “Barry.” Oliver uses a finger under Barry’s chin to guide him to catch his eyes again. He attempts a reassuring expression. “We’re gonna be fine.”  _

_ The nineteen year old nods, his features relaxing. Oliver’s holding himself up by his hands as he swoops closer to continue kissing him. He steadies himself on one arm, freeing Barry’s wrists, so he can bring the other to take a hold of Barry’s right thigh; letting it hike up to wrap around his waist. There’s a thump then, which both of them grudgingly move apart to inspect.  _

_ The glass bowl of candy clatters to the floor, and they don’t even have time to register it before the bed is flying forwards through the air, knocking them both off.  _

_ “Oliver!” Barry yells, reaching out to the man. The soaring waves can now be seen from a huge hole in the wall. He’s scrambling to pull himself away from it, nearer to Oliver; but the wind is strong and the water is freezing on his toes. Oliver sits up, disoriented. He sees Barry just as the brunet is sliding out of the tipping yacht and into the storm.  _

_ “NO!”  _

Barry snaps out of his thoughts when he hears Oliver say his name, questioning tone. He shakes himself, trying to clear his head. His cigarette is burned to the filter so he flicks it into the grass two stories below, taking out another one. Does the moon approve of his chain smoking? 

“Sorry, I’m here.” 

“You don’t have to apologize to me, not ever.” There’s a distant glimpse of what they used to be in that sentence and it makes Barry’s heart plunge. He doesn’t take notice of it. 

“Yeah.” Barry doesn’t bother with anything else, he’s not in the right mind to bring up anything from their past over the phone. Not like he wants to, it’s honestly one of the last things he’d ever willingly talk about. He knows Oliver sees it differently, judging by the way he was easy to jump into what they were, unknowing Barry wasn’t. He slowly started to retreat when he saw how Barry felt.

Understanding that Oliver dragged Barry into a mess he’d have to deal with for the rest of his life wasn’t simple. Or maybe it was, who knows. He abandoned Barry to fend for himself, left him to hurt and wander for years then assumed he was welcomed back with a warm smile and open heart. Hardly the case at all. 

Iris still sneaks into his room sometimes, curls up next to him just to know he’s there. Safe, home, breathing. They’ve exchanged whispers, Iris studying the scars littering his bare chest, asking him what happened on the island. He’d deflect it, saying ‘nothing good, but you were with me every step I took’ and that’s true. He yearned for his family every sunrise and every sunset. He imagines they weren’t far off, either. Grieving a lost brother and son, but attempting to hold on to hope at the same time. 

He’s more than aware his sister can carry on a grudge for as long as she lives, Joe not far behind. That’s why he never speaks of Oliver, or never tries to interject when they see him in public or on the TV. He’d be talking to a brick wall. There isn’t loads he could defend about the situation anyways. 

His lips curl around his cigarette as he drags his hand through his messy hair. It’s grown, he should cut it soon. He vowed he’d never keep it too long, not after it touched past his shoulders on Lian Yu. A horrid look for him, really. A yawn escapes and he takes his cell away from his ear to check the time; 4:58 AM. He isn’t going to get anymore sleep if he doesn’t go try to now. 

“How does 1 sound? A late lunch?” It takes Barry a second to realize what’s going on, when he remembers he agreed to visit the Queen’s tomorrow he runs a hand down his face. The butt resting between his pointer and middle finger is rough on his cheek. 

He lets another yawn out, “Sounds ok.” Ash falls on his thigh and he absentmindedly sweeps it off. 

There’s shuffling over the receiver, bedsheets most likely. “I’m really glad you agreed to this.” 

Barry isn’t. It’s going to be stiff and awkward; if only he’d let up a little, it could be something nice. Regardless, he hums. 

“We should get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow, Barry.” The lilt of aspiration in Oliver’s voice has the strength to pull on his heart strings, even still, but the man’s far too tired to give anything but a small goodnight. 

Minutes later when he’s tucked back in bed, he vaguely wonders what he’s gotten himself into.

  
  



	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking up slowly is strange.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic is unfinished but  
> at least it's out in the world  
> enjoy  
> ty

Waking up slowly is strange. 

Feeling the stream of sunlight hitting your cheeks before seeing it is comforting. You know it’s there, and you’re not captured, or dead. Being able to lazily flutter your eyes open, and let them come into focus on your bright walls; satisfying. 

But as you’re aware of the time, and your position in the universe, how it would impact others if you  _ weren’t _ to wake up; very strange indeed. 

Barry brings his hand up to tousle his hair, and run down his face, wiping the tiredness from his temples. At least he gets to  _ be _ tired. The sheets rest low on his hips, and he gets up to stretch. His phone tells him it’s barely 7 O’clock. The thud of Joe’s work boots coming up the stairs is distant, but he can easily hear it. Hastily, he grabs the red hoodie off his desk chair. Joe gently knocks as he slips it over his head. 

His adoptive father’s seen his scars. Studied them silently one time, in a bland hospital room after the doctor told him that his son sustained many injuries. Iris was there too, shocked at the x-rays and more so at the man himself. It’s not something he likes to go flaunting around, nonetheless. 

“You can come in, Joe.” Barry calls out, in a steady voice. “You don’t really have to knock, it’s not like I ever have any company.” 

Joe eases the door open, stepping into the threshold. He did a quick scan of the room, looking for something, Barry’s not sure what. When he’s satisfied, his eyes trail over the younger, immediately knowing he hadn’t got much sleep. If it’s his fatherly instinct, or the fact he’s had to deal with it almost every night since his return, he doesn’t mention it. “Privacy, son. It exists.” 

Barry shrugs, walking to his dresser to get a pair of socks. He sits on the edge of his bed to pull them on, debating in his head whether he should take his morning run around the neighborhood or trail a little farther today. He mutters with as much humor as he can, “Not much alone time on an inhospitable island in the North China sea. Well, not  _ that  _ kind, anyway.”

It didn’t make Joe give any sort of laugh, which he knew it wouldn’t. It’s not only his grievance to joke about, it’s his family’s as well. There were times when they genuinely believed they’d never seen him again. He tries to make the topic easier to speak of, but it never works in his favor. 

Joe clears his throat, dismissing his comment. “Got any plans today?” There’s a hint of worry lacing it. Having people worry about him isn’t much of an inconvenience anymore as it was when he was a teenager. It’s not that he actively avoids meeting new people, but he actively avoids meeting new people. He’d much rather sit at a table in the coffee shop Iris works at, scribbling in his journal. 

He reaches down to toe into his converse, lacing them up quickly before standing. “Yeah, actually.” He shuffles, and can’t properly make eye contact when he says the next words, “I’m going over to the Queen’s mansion at one. Late lunch with Oliver.” 

The sigh that Joe gives can only be classified as disappointment, anger? Suddenly, the cop can’t look at his face either. Barry vaguely wonders if there’s ever going to be a time where the mention of Oliver’s name makes the man smile again. He also ponders when he started frowning instead of grinning, as well. 

Joe used to adore his boyfriend, gave him his blessing even before they started dating in senior year. He would invite him over for dinner, let him stay at the West household when his own got too mechanical. Took him in as if he’d been part of the family all along. Hell, Joe had taught them both how to drive. 

“Alright. Well, I guess, see you tonight, then.” He looked strangled to say that, voicing it almost as a question rather than a goodbye. Barry wishes he could defend Oliver, but realizes there’s not much to defend. The detective made move to leave but Barry caught the sleeve of his SCPD jacket. 

“Joe, wait.”

His father turned, eyebrows raised not out of curiosity but out of politeness. It was enough for Barry to go on, “We’re having lunch as friends, nothing more. And, Joe…” He hesitates, not positive if he should voice the next thing, when he doesn’t fully believe it himself. He goes on anyway, “He isn’t a bad guy.” 

Joe digested this for a second, before he gave a curt nod that was anything but acceptance. He turns his back, and starts his trot back down the stairs. “You can’t blame him forever.” Barry says after the figure. The reply he gets is expected.

“I can try.” 

_ There’s tears unwillingly streaming down Barry’s face, the man letting out sounds of hurt every few seconds. The tub is near overflowing, but he doesn’t take notice. He remains curled tight on the tiled floor, minutely shivering in his boxer briefs.  _

_ The pounding on the locked door, and the urgent voice calling out to him are muffled, like he’s underwater. Underwater. He feels like he’s drowning; just like that night. He can’t catch his breath, and his surroundings keep flashing in and out, the darkness of the sea, the white walls of the bathroom. Sea, bathroom, sea, sea… He’s never going to make it to the island. He’s going to drown before he swims to the surface, there’s too much water in his lungs.  _

_ He can’t breathe.  _

_ His hands are pulling at strands of hair, chest heaving in struggle. His eyes are squeezed shut so tight it’s hurting, alike the rest of his body. He can faintly make out someone yelling, ‘Barry! Are you okay?’ His sobs overtake everything, so he isn’t able to reply. The twist of a key in the lock sounds enough like the jiggle of a trigger that Barry shoves his head between his knees, shielding it with his arms.  _

_ The door gets swung open, the wood hitting the tips of his toes and he involuntarily jumps in fear. Joe is panic stricken, mouth wide in shock, and eyes deep with pity, looking at his son. Barry forces himself to uncurl his head, cautiously glancing up. His vision is blurred by the wetness that is still steadily coming, but his shoulders release slight turmoil at seeing a familiar face.  _

_ ‘I’m not in the soaring waves, I’m not on the island. I’m home. I’m safe, I’m okay. I can’t get hurt here.’ _

_ He repeats it like a mantra in his head, allowing himself an attempt at steadying his oxygen intakes. Warm water is flooding the floor now, dampening his remaining clothing and feet. Regardless, Joe moves to sit beside Barry, softly putting a hand on his shoulder. The gesture grounds the brunet, and he chokes out, “Oliver.”  _

_ One word is all it takes for him to start sobbing in his father’s arms for an entirely different reason than a few minutes before. He’s spewing nonsense, but apparently, Joe can understand. The man’s doing his best to comfort, instead of break down himself.  _

_ “He didn’t look for me, he didn’t. I was alone, Joe, I was so alone. I wanted to give up, but I knew I couldn’t. I couldn’t do that to you, or to, to Iris. I needed him, and he wasn’t there!” Barry’s inconsistent babbling goes on for a while, and Joe only gets up momentarily to shut the water off. He listens intently, hugging the younger tight, pure dejection pumping through his veins.  _

_ The cries die down, to timed hiccups and sniffles. Joe stares heavily at the opposite wall, letting Barry calm down.  _

_ “I’ll never forgive him, Barry.”  _

_ Barry is silent.  _

He sighs in defeat, shaking his head more to himself than anybody else. He grabs his phone and earbuds, preparing to take his jog. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
